


Damsel? Me? Never

by mothergayselle



Series: lyna mahariel [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Friendship/Love, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:41:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27390616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mothergayselle/pseuds/mothergayselle
Summary: mahariel is stubborn and zevran loves a damsel. when you overwork yourself, who else would you want to sweep you off your feet?(alistair disapproves +15)
Relationships: Alistair/Female Mahariel (Dragon Age), Zevran Arainai/Female Mahariel
Series: lyna mahariel [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1857031
Kudos: 10





	Damsel? Me? Never

It wasn’t an unusual occurrence, the fainting. Neither were the unending, incessant patrols at night. Mahariel must have rounded the camp a hundred times, and still she slithered along the shadows of the Brecilian forest like Death, except, _she_ needed the sleep.

Zevran’s accent was curled, a midnight rose unfurling in the fragrant air. “May I suggest we return to camp soon?” he prompted. “You’re looking a little…”

Mahariel’s subsequent glare teased a smile from him.

“Well, radiant as always, of course. However, fatigued would also be an accurate description.”

During patrols, Mahariel always insisted on taking point — which, the group noticed, as a duelist — put her in the direct line of fire. If she wasn’t always so utterly silent, it would’ve been a matter of contention. 

Still, her persistence to spend each night patrolling often drove Alistair to pace the entire camp until their inevitable return. And they _had_ returned, every time, although this did little to ease his worrying.

Mahariel continued to slink through the brambles of the forest, folding each footstep into quarters as she padded with the side of her feet. “It’s not my fault I can’t sleep,” she hissed, rounding the trunk of a redwood. “I have, uh, what did Zathrian call it—”

“Post-traumatic stress—“

“—Yeah. Exactly. I didn’t _ask_ for a troubled childhood.”

Their breaths were waifs spilling out of their throats. “Ah, yes. The plight of the wounded child,” he mused.

“ _You_ would know.” 

The remark didn’t hurt — on the contrary. The vitriol of Mahariel’s words was intoxicating, like a fine wine laced with the sweetest poison. Zevran’s mouth tingled at the taste. “Indeed, I would. In fact, I used my childhood quite often when working with the Crows. Women _love_ a broken man.” His tongue lingered on that last part.

Mahariel’s cadence never stuttered. “Yeah, all right. Same old story. Men and women, drink and sex. Money. Blood splattering onto your boots. More sex. More money. Blah blah blah. Shut up,” she murmured. “I’m working here.”

The jests laid hollow, and Zevran frowned. Throughout her babble, it’d been clear. Even in the dark, Mahariel’s grip on her daggers was slack. Too weak for the flourishes she favored. If a darkspawn or a werewolf were to ambush them now, the blades would slip through her fingers.

Nevertheless, he made a conscious effort to respond in turn. “I’m waiting for your imminent unconsciousness, my dear. Judging by your posture and the shuffling of your feet, you have but minutes.”

Mahariel scoffed, and he watched as she momentarily paused their scouting. She rolled her neck, wincing, and turned to face Zevran’s nimble frame. “I’m tired, Zev. That hardly makes me a damsel in distress.”

When he grinned, the corners of her mouth spasmed. It was impossible not to smile at such a mischievous expression. _Like a wolf,_ Leliana had said. Minus the canines.

Zevran tilted his head at an angle that exposed the hard, fine line of his jaw. The dimple on his cheek, as wily as he, winked at her. “If only, madame. However, should you ever change your mind—“ His grin only widened at the slight narrowing of her eyes. “—Allow me to be the prince who, helplessly allured by your beauty, sweeps you off your weary feet. I should want for nothing more.”

He added a bow for effect, and the full moon calcined his hair into silver. 

“Do you ever tire of monologuing?” she teased, chewing the inside of her cheek. An exercise to control the smile assembling beneath the surface. “It must be a lot of work, lying so often.”

The next exhale was long, a release of something hard. When Mahariel proceeded to sheathe a dagger, Zevran’s gaze was drawn to the way its point scraped against the holder before plunging in. A wave of exhaustion seemed to visibly tug at the Warden, and he inched forward, returning his own weapons to the scabbards behind his neck.

“Okay,” she said. Her eyelids fluttered, and she swallowed nervously as she sheathed the other dagger. “I’m ready to head back now.” Mahariel sneered at Zevran’s advancement. “I’m not going to collapse, idiot.” 

The forest itself seemed to catch the guile. Her words were snatched away by its perfect darkness, beckoned out of her throat by its lull. The animals were quiet — save for the owls. No monster trudged their way. Camp was safe. Camp had _been_ safe, but Mahariel chose to toil regardless and they all knew it was futile to stop her.

In her defense, there were many nights where she _had_ intercepted shadowy villains, berserk-brained and intent on attacking their lodging. Mahariel was diligent, and that diligence was why they turned to her as their leader. On nights like _these_ , though…well.

Mahariel grimaced. The tattoos on her face shimmered when her head lolled and greeted the stars. The Creators. The Maker. Zevran didn’t know. One of those, perhaps. Her copper hair fought the moonlight slicing into it, holding onto a sliver of color before it could be bleached completely. A rumble of defiance purred out of her, and she swore a string of oaths that surprised even Zevran. He only stalked, one half-foot at a time, until a respectable amount of room lay between them.

“Zevran?” she asked, bringing a clean hand to her face.

His face remained smooth as he replied. “Yes, dear?”

Mahariel’s eyes snapped open once more to shoot him a withering glare. “I hate you.”

Contempt in the face of exhaustion was impressive. Zevran’s lips arced, the smirk pulling at their fullness. His eyes, though. Did she see how they tightened? How they remained untouched and cold?

“Zev,” she said, scowling, her mouth loosening open. “Catch me.”

It was, unfortunately, a dance they’ve performed before. A dark routine, of sorts. Mahariel reached for him as her knees failed, though she was unconscious by the time she sank into his chest. Zevran huffed in disapproval. Silly woman. _Stubborn_ woman. This wasn’t dramatic _at all_. 

The velocity made it easy enough. With one hand he cradled the Warden’s head while the other, _yes,_ swept both feet off the forest floor. Zevran felt the impulse to glower, to physically express the criticism he felt brewing inside his belly, but the desire quickly evaporated. Mahariel, limp and haunted, was hard to accuse. Even when a damsel.

It wasn’t just the blue half-moons etched beneath her eyes, or the small cut on her lip that she picked at. A few fainting spells hardly compared to the friendship she’d so easily offered, even after their objectionable meeting. With the Warden inert in his arms, Zevran trudged back to camp.

<\--------------------------------------------x------------------------------------------------>

They always slept in shifts, but there he was, circling the fire, stomping a trench into the Earth. 

_Honestly._

Alistair intercepted them as they emerged from the shadows. “Again?” His voice was breathless as it echoed across the campsite. It was a good thing they’d secured the perimeter, then.

Mahariel stirred in his arms. “Mm?” It took her a moment to recognize that it was his face, and not Alistair’s, peering back at her. She swore something filthy, a curse Zevran frequented on his own — had he rubbed off on her? Glee registered in the back of his mind. He’d save that for later.

He couldn’t help but grin at her confusion. “Hello, my dear.”

By then, Alistair had approached with long, anxious strides. Poor bastard. He’d covered the span of the whole campsite in a matter of seconds. “Lyna?” 

Zevran ignored the annoyance flashing across Alistair’s face upon greeting him with a nod. “She's only been out for a bit. The coast is clear, by the way. We made sure many times.” That last part was for himself. 

“Don’t be passive,” Mahariel slurred out. She turned her face away from his chest and breathed deeply, although her eyes remained closed. The lashes on each undulated as they sought for something to help them open, perhaps. Brambles of blackness. “It’s unworthy of you.”

Mahariel eased into Alistair’s hold easily. Zevran gently deposited the Warden as soon as he’d reached for her. A poor bastard he was, yes, but the stress carved so deeply into the man’s jaw evoked a modicum of sympathy. 

“Is she hurt?” he asked. Zevran shook his head in an answer.

Mahariel, meanwhile, was beginning to revive. “ _She_ is not hurt, thank you.” The belligerence in her voice softened Alistair’s panic somewhat — his teeth finally unclenched and the air was filled with the sound of the subsequent sigh. The noise drew her attention upwards, and she frowned. 

“I’m sorry. I’d planned to take it easy tonight but I just kept seeing things in the dark.” The frowned deepened, tightening her brows. “Or so I thought.”

Zevran watched their exchange politely. Alistair may have more questions after he’s put her to bed like the damsel she really wasn’t, but sometimes made herself to be.

Every word she spoke visibly dissolved the worry from Alistair’s body. It was a bit sickening to watch, but he couldn’t say he wouldn’t do the same in his place. “Yes, well, who knows what could’ve swooped in from the treetops?” He then realized the stupidity of his words. “Uh, um, that probably… was not helpful.”

Zevran felt like rolling his eyes.

“Let us retire, shall we? I’m beginning to get the feeling that the others feel as if they are missing out.” He moved his chin in the direction of the site, where Leliana and Wynne had gathered together. The rest were asleep, although Morrigan looked suspiciously rigid and alert in her supposed slumber, even from the far edge of the campsite, where she holed up.

Lyna made a small noise of complaint and shot Alistair what Zevran thought to be a very persuasive expression. “Can I at least walk?” she asked him. Her voice was much sweeter than its prior timbre. “No need to cause more of a disturbance than I already have.”

Alistair’s first reaction was to gaze at her adoringly, but then the love-sickness faltered and he returned to her face with a narrowed, probing stare. _There it is_ , Zevran thought. _He’s finally catching on_. 

Lyna flashed him a grin as he set her on her feet. “We’ll talk about this… later,” he said. 

She stood on her own well enough. Alistair didn’t let go as she fanned out her hair. Glints of auburn were teased out from the fire several yards away. He continued to eye her with suspicion, and Lyna sighed. They all began a slow walk to the tents.

“You started it. Forced the blood down my throat,” she said to Alistair, who promptly looked stricken with shock, “If you hadn't, you wouldn’t have to wait so long to go to bed.” There was an awkward emptiness among them, but then she grinned, every bit as wolfish as Leliana accused him of being. Alistair’s expression of surprise melted at the wink she threw at him afterwards. Zevran smiled to himself.

“Yeah, but then you wouldn’t have met me,” Alistair teased back. There remained a slight strain in his voice, so Mahariel reached up and tussled his hair. He proceeded to swat her away. “And Maker knows, that is a fate much worse than anything I’ve endured.”

Gag. Zevran made a mental note to help the ex-templar with his lines. Just as he was about to abandon them to their ill-timed, puppy love, Leliana had flitted to them, as graceful as an Orlesian, summer breeze. Her lips were roses in the darkness. Lovely.

“Next time,” she said, raking them over with her gaze. Zevran came last, and there was a very obvious tautening of the upper planes of her face. “I’m going with Lyna. _You_ enable her too much.” 

Only her temper was more lovely than her mouth. “Leliana, this is Lyna.” He gestured to her without looking. “It seems as if you two haven’t met. In case you were wondering, she’s the boss.”

Leliana _harrumphed_. “Which makes you…?”

“I’m so glad you asked, gorgeous. I—“

_“Nevermind.”_


End file.
